Blood of War (12 page)

* * *

For the first time in months, Jurel walked with a buoyancy in his step. Through corridors that were beginning to show evidence of the Abbey waking, he whistled tuneless ditties to himself until he reached the classroom.

When he entered, Metana looked up from her lectern and smiled, greeting him shyly. With no further ado, she gathered up a ream of parchment, a thin book and a large wicker basket which she handed to him, and motioning him to follow, walked from the classroom.

Soon, they were in an arbor much like the one Jurel used as a refuge on occasion, though this one was much more frequented by the denizens of the Abbey, as evidenced by the neatly trimmed grass and pruned hedges. The sun had not yet broached the top of the wall so they were still deeply shadowed, but the spell cast by the Salosians ensured that even at that time of morning and even though it was only a month past midwinter, it was pleasantly warm. The flowers were always in bloom here; as the sun peeked over the wall, the arbor transformed into a dazzling oasis of tranquility sprinkled liberally with lush, velvet colors.

They settled on a bench in the middle of the arbor where the path widened, creating something like a glade, and sat in silence for a time. Jurel enjoyed the idyllic scene while Metana, with her head bowed and her hands held loosely in her lap, seemed to be praying. He wondered, briefly, to whom? Valsa? Perhaps, but it did not feel quite right to him. Certainly not Shomra. There were plenty of brothers and sisters who worshiped the God of Death but they were all dour, somber people who shambled about the Abbey silently with their heads bowed. Metana was anything but somber and she did not shamble anywhere. With the amount of knowledge she had stuffed between her ears, probably Maora he decided.

Soon, she roused herself with a shake and flashed him a tentative smile.

“Well then, Jurel, do you want to start the lesson now or eat first?”

He gave her a sheepish look after his belly answered for him, grumbling impatiently. She grinned and began laying out their picnic.

Soon they were munching on soft rolls, still warm and slathered in fresh butter, tart yellow cheese wedges, and apples, and sipping water from flagons. Neither said anything for a time. Though they both made an effort to appear comfortable and simply too busy eating, Jurel kept casting nervous glances, wondering if this new, more amicable Metana was here to stay. Every once in a while he caught her eyes just before she snapped them back to her food.

Soon, they were licking butter and fruit juice from their fingers and leaning back with sighs of contentment. They gazed silently into the depths of the arbor, ostensibly enjoying the view but Jurel knew that they were each trying to figure out a way to begin a conversation that would not be awkward. It was Metana, unsurprisingly, who broke the heavy silence.

“Shall we begin then?”

He stifled a disappointed sigh as she reached for her sheaf of work. It was not quite how he wanted to start but he followed her lead and pulled a blank sheet to his lap. He poised a short stub of lead near the top left corner, waiting to begin taking notes. She opened her book, leafed through a few pages then halted. For a moment, Jurel thought she was referring to her own notes but her eyes held a far away look. She unconsciously fingered a wayward lock of her ebony hair back behind her ears, her brow drawing down, her lips pursing just slightly. She drew a deep breath which had a most diverting effect on the front of her robe.

Gods
but she was beautiful!

“I...I'm...” she stuttered without looking up from her notes. “I...this is hard for me. I rarely ever apologize and I certainly never apologize to a student.”

Jurel, being Jurel, was embarrassed (though somewhat gratified, he would not lie to himself) and tried to ease her. “No. No Metana. It's fine. Really, I think...”

But he trailed off as the more familiar glare caught him like a shovel in the face.

“Jurel, I'm trying to do something nice. Shut up and let me finish.”

He nearly swallowed his tongue.

Relenting, she sighed again and he had to work hard to keep his eyes up. “I've been unfair to you. I've been so concerned about the upheaval in my life that I did not think of yours. That's a very unsisterly attitude,” she smirked. “I've forgotten one of the cardinal rules. I may be a teacher, but it doesn't mean I can stop learning. Look, I don't know who you are, I don't know if I believe master Kurin's claims, but I do know that you have caused me to ask some interesting questions. I think, if you wouldn't mind, that I'd like to stay and continue to help with your education.”

A part of Jurel wanted to shout for joy, another part cringed in fear. Up to this point, she had been brutally hard on him, quick to anger, and never satisfied with anything he did but he still had the feeling that this was a woman he would enjoy getting to know better if he could break through her armor. He was not sure he could keep up her pace much longer though.

She must have seen only the latter because she smiled ruefully and shrugged. “I promise to let up a little on you. You'll have some days off, and some evenings with little work. There will still be plenty of work, but I think you will find it manageable.”

She stared at the book in her lap for a few moments and seemed to reach a decision. With a decisive nod, she snapped it shut and said, “How about we do that today?”

At first, there was a great deal of silence interspersed with only a few words. But as the sun rose to its zenith, they began to open up more, until even Metana told Jurel some small stories from her past. Soon, they were laughing and speaking like long-time friends and the tension of earlier was forgotten. As the light hardened to a late afternoon glare, they packed up their things and headed off to share dinner.

By the time Jurel found himself back in his own room, he was electrified and enchanted by this new young lady that he had only begun to get to know. Things were looking up. They were looking up indeed.

Chapter 10

“Damn,” High Priest Thalor muttered, righting his goblet. He glared at the offending pool of red wine that spread like blood across the paperwork on his desk. Then, he glared at the door where he kept the knocker as yet waiting.

With a perfunctory twirl of his fingers, the wine lifted from the desk, and delicately poured back into his goblet, leaving his desk pristine and dry once again.

Taking a deep breath, he faced the door once again.

“Come in,” he barked.

His door opened just enough to allow the man to enter, then silently swung closed again.

Dressed in dark leathers, Kerr was not the type of man one might expect to see occupying the halls of the great temple, and certainly Kerr and his type were rarely seen. Tall and lanky, the man scanned Thalor's office with quick flicks of his eyes; his type were always suspicious, always alert. It kept them alive.

Members of the Eyes of God, a secret sect within the prelacy, were charged with the quiet accrual of information. They were, as the name suggests, the eyes of the temple. Along with those duties, they were also efficient assassins when the need arose. Kerr was among the best of them; Thalor often tapped him to further his purposes.

Thalor did not offer the man a chair or a drink, knowing full well that Kerr would refuse both. The man would make his report and disappear back into the woodwork until the next time he was called upon.

“What news do you bring, Kerr?”

As quietly as his steps, the man answered, “They are to the south, along the northern coast of the Sun Sea. They occupy an old fortress. It is, by all account, easily defended, but they do not have enough manpower to do so effectively. They rely mostly on spells woven into the stonework to prevent detection. It was difficult to retain the knowledge but we managed.”

Kerr's dark eyes continued to rove. Thalor had told him countless times that his office was heavily warded against eavesdroppers, but Kerr always responded with a perfunctory “Yes sir,” even as his eyes continued to search and his answers remained curt.

“What are their numbers?” Thalor said.

“Approximately forty five hundred total sir. Three thousand soldiers.”

Thalor let those numbers sink in and he let a gloating grin spread across his face. There were more than thirty thousand Soldiers of God here in Threimes alone and that did not count the Grayson garrison or any of the other smaller garrisons in between. He was certain that he could get Maten's approval to muster all the garrisons. With as many as fifty thousand troops and perhaps a few hundred priests, they would stamp out the Salosian Order once and for all. His grin widened as he thanked Kerr who slipped from the room like a phantom.

* * *

Gixen rolled off the pallet he shared with his newest conquest, a pretty young thing with arousingly slender legs and a perky cherub's face mostly covered by a splay of ebony hair, and disgustedly yanked his breeches on. He glared at the pale figure of the girl and spat in her face. She did not care. She was too busy staring at something far distant, something no living eyes were ever allowed to see.

Stupid bitch. She had not even had the courtesy to let him finish before she died. There was always the bright light of fire in his back when fingernails cut at him, a fire whose heat always
stretched down, oozed into his own loins; his back was crisscrossed with mementos. There was always that last look, that final understanding as he reached his climax, the realization that he completely dominated them,
owned
them. She did not give him that last pleasure even when he wrapped his hand around her throat and squeezed, urging her to fight back, begging her to show that she understood what he was doing to her. She had died and he had to finish staring into lifeless eyes.

After, he always enjoyed listening to them weep as they curled up into little balls; some people enjoyed a pipe, some people smoked that terrible tama weed, some snuggled close, reveling in the lingering glow. He liked the crying. Even that was robbed from him. If she was not already dead, he would have killed her for it. He did not always kill his girls. If they pleased him, if they truly reached their potential with him, he let them live so that they may forever remember the honor of being chosen by him.

He kicked the lifeless body and it tumbled from the bed, landing to the muddy ground with a muted thud. Then he strode from the tent into the cool air that passed for summer that far north, letting the wind bite his naked chest, trying to put the girl from his mind. Stupid bitch.

“Herkan! Where are you, you worthless shit?”

His lieutenant came running from around one of the tents and pulled up short, saluting him crisply. Not too bright was Herkan and it showed in his eyes that were almost as lifeless as the tramp he left behind. He stank too; bits of rotting food stuck in his beard like infected nodules and his clothes were weeks beyond the need for a cleaning. But he was a good lieutenant who followed Gixen's orders without question.

“Sir! What do you need?”

He stifled the urge to wrinkle his nose when the man's fetid breath washed over him, rotted teeth giving the stench of stale liquor a sickly-sweet undertone of decay.

“Have we rounded up all the able bodied men in this midden heap?”

“Yes sir.”

“How many do we have now?”

“About six thousand in total sir.”

Herkan hesitated, unsure what it was his commander wanted, unsure if he was dismissed or if there was something else.

“Well? What are you waiting for? It's time to move on.”

With another crisp salute, Herkan ran, shouting orders and Gixen watched. It was always satisfying to see his men move quickly, to see them jump to do as he commanded. They had good reason to move. The master had been very clear. He did not care if Gixen indulged himself with the odd girl. He did not care if he killed every girl in the land. As long as he returned with the prize. Soon. If his men did not move quickly, he would flay them himself.

Gixen quickly donned a shirt, and strode through the camp to his horse, distracted, still thinking about his task and the days ahead.

For Gixen's part, he did not care if the master got his prize. Well, not quite true. The master had made it quite clear what would happen to him if he failed so he supposed he cared a little. But the truth was, Gixen would have taken this task anyway. He wanted to wage war. He wanted to feel his sword slide into men, to see their life ooze to a red puddle on the ground, to feel the hot wetness of it splash on his face and body. It was like a cleansing for him.

And the thought of all those young southern sunlander girls aroused him, their smooth flesh undamaged by bitter winds, their meekness, their readiness to service him. Oh he would bring death to them, soldier and girl alike. It would be a dream come true.

But first, he had to finish building his army. He had time for that. Maybe enough time to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh once or twice more before they marched south.

As he turned his rangy horse, as he led his growing army, six thousand strong, six thousand hard, grim faced men, there was a shriek in the village behind him.

“
Kahlia! Kahlia!”

So that had been the girl's name. Not that it made a difference. Names were reserved for those who mattered. As the remaining villagers—women, children and men too old to piss by themselves—broke off their sullen stares at the army that had taken all their able-bodied men and rushed to see what the problem was, Gixen smiled. He got at least some of his final pleasure after all.

* * *

Grand Prelate Maten was feeling rather smug as he approached the great sweeping doors to Threimes's throne room. He smiled beatifically at the young page who stood at attention before the door. The young boy squeaked as he recognized Maten, and slipped into the throne room. This did not bother Maten in the slightest. The news from Thalor had been wonderful. They were only months away from destroying the Salosian dogs. He had already signed orders that Thalor would round up every available Soldier of God minus enough to keep each garrison manned by a skeleton staff and, along with any priests Thalor deemed necessary, would march by the end of the spring.